La roue tourne
by Chloe625
Summary: AU. What if M. Madeleine had not made it to Arras in time? My first fanfic.
1. Une roue cassé

**Author's note: As this is my first ever published fanfic, any constructive criticism or praise is highly appreciated.**

** If you like it, please say so, otherwise I might not take it any further. Thanks for reading!**

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"Isn't there another wheelwright in town?"

The stable boy and the wheelwright, without exchanging glances, looked at M. Madeleine and answered him in unison.

"No."

He felt an immense joy.

He would not make it to Arras in time. It was impossible; the wheel was broken and it could neither be replaced nor repaired in time. He had spent the previous night searching his tormented mind for an answer, an answer that did not come. He had hesitated, he had wavered; now it was clear. Of course! It was never for him to decide. Evidently Providence had just decided for him. How could he presume to challenge the will of God? Besides, he had exhausted every option, every possibility, and he could see no way to get to Arras in time for the trial. It was through no fault of his own; he had made every effort, with genuine intent. What more could be asked of him?

Yet even as he felt this profound relief, something made him shudder. Was this truly God's will, or that of something else? He suddenly noticed the small crowd that had gathered near him and the wheelwright. A dozen bored spectators, such as are always found in small towns, had stopped and were watching the two men with the sort of indifferent curiosity that comes from boredom. As he looked at them, he half-expected a voice to cry out, shattering his hopes: Wait! I can help you continue your journey.

But no such words were spoken. The crowd remained silent and passive. So it was determined. Madeleine turned to the wheelwright. "Very well," he said wearily, but not without relief. "I will wait while you repair the wheel. But I am in a hurry. I'll pay double if you have it done by nightfall."

***

Despite the wheelwright's best efforts, the tilbury was not ready until around six the next morning. M. Madeleine found himself incredibly agitated over the delay, though he was not sure why, and he could not sleep. Yet there was nothing terribly pressing calling him back to Montreuil-sur-mer, and the trial in Arras was over. By now the poor fellow who called himself Champmathieu had undoubtedly been sentenced and condemned as the convict Jean Valjean. He would be sent to the work camps without much delay. At the thought of it, Madeleine felt a wave of sickness, which might have been for fear or guilt. Now that it was too late, he couldn't help but think there might have been some way to get to Arras in time. Perhaps if he had tried a little harder, offered more money, even taken a chance on the broken wheel… Had he perhaps been a little too eager to hand this man over to fate, a fate which should have been his, and to absolve himself of blame, all in the name of God?

As he set off at last in the repaired vehicle, he found his thoughts drifting in the direction of a new possibility. What if Champmathieu had not actually been condemned? What if one of the witnesses had changed his testimony, and had realized that this poor man was in fact not Jean Valjean? He might have been set free after all, even without Madeleine's intervention. But that meant the hunt for Jean Valjean would continue, only now with renewed interest. He knew the prosecuting attorney; he was a persistent man, and having lost Champmathieu, he would be anxious to find a replacement.

Madeleine also considered Javert. The man had seemed entirely convinced that this Champmathieu was Jean Valjean. But he had suspected Madeleine first – indeed, to the point of denouncing him to the prefect in Paris! If new evidence had been found, if a witness had changed his mind, who knows?

M. Madeleine continued to think like this, growing more anxious with every passing mile, as he journeyed back to Montreuil-sur-mer.

***

That afternoon, Javert was leaving the house of Madame Buseaupied, following up on a complaint against the carter Chesnelong. He was still occupied with the rather long list of tasks the mayor had given him the day before the trial. It was odd, he reflected; the mayor rarely asked anything of him, and such tedious errands could have been delegated to one of the subordinates. Never one to shy from duty, however, he complied, and was grateful at least for the distraction. He was very tired, having spent the previous day at the trial in Arras and most of the night on a stagecoach back to Montreuil-sur-mer. Yet his fatigue was mixed with some measure of relief, knowing that he was finally free of the matter of Jean Valjean. He had not waited for the sentence to be delivered since the result was certain. Javert had complete faith in the judicial process; besides, the case was solid, the witnesses were convinced, the prosecuting attorney was very good. The old scamp was condemned.

Javert had to return to the police station to file the report of Mme. Buseaupied, and after, he had to go to rue Montre-de-Champigny to investigate another complaint. Once he took the report of M. Charcellay, he intended to visit with the mayor again to report on his errands and to again request his dismissal. The last meeting had been unsuccessful; the mayor had rather seemed to enjoy Javert's misery and probably wanted to prolong his suffering, thus he refused to give even him the relief of dismissal. He knew the mayor had always despised him, for he made every attempt to undermine Javert, to humiliate and provoke him. Javert had resisted such provocations until the adventure with the prostitute. That time the mayor had gotten the better of him, Javert had to admit; he had allowed a personal grievance to interfere with his duty; he had faltered and erred. And now that Javert had confessed his error, the mayor surely loathed him more than ever, and probably thought he held some new power over him.

In that he was wrong. Javert had decided to give the mayor eight days to do the right thing and dismiss him; if he failed to do so, Javert would resign. He would not allow the man to deny him the justice he deserved, and to keep him at his post only to gloat over him.

Javert returned to the station, filed his report, and shortly after left in the direction of rue Montre-de-Champigny. At that moment he happened to spy M. Madeleine, apparently returning to town from who knows where, driving a little tilbury led by white horse. Something about the mayor's appearance made Javert shudder. Madeleine, who was always preoccupied and yet always had a kind air, had become terrible. A dark shadow had fallen over his features, and the feral look in his eyes, that of one who is hunted, aroused the predatory nature in Javert. Madeleine suddenly turned off the main road onto a little side street. Instinctively, Javert began to follow him.


	2. Où on tombe par terre

**Author's Note: Special thanks to L'Ael-Inire and AmZ, my first reviewers, for their thoughtful and encouraging words. I hope you continue to enjoy the story! **

**This will be another short chapter, but more is coming soon.**

**As always, any honest feedback is appreciated!**

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It was nearly five in the afternoon by the time M. Madeleine arrived back in Montreuil-sur-mer. The journey back had been uneventful and left plenty of time for thought. In fact, Madeleine was quite close to driving himself mad with all his thoughts. At one moment he was rejoicing, feeling himself finally free of his past; the next he was racked with guilt, cursing himself for allowing an innocent to be condemned in his name. He was on the verge of tears, or of laughing. He tried to suppress all of these emotions, finding none of them appropriate. By the time he pulled the little tilbury into the city, his feelings of remorse and joy alike had faded and he began to sink back into fear. It was a familiar feeling; the sense of being on the run, not free, not yet taken. Strange torment that he had brought on himself.

He turned down a little street off the main road, without paying much attention to where he was going. The streets were busy this time of day and already a few citizens had greeted the mayor as he passed. He did not see them. Finally he realized that his horse was exhausted, that he himself had neither eaten nor slept for nearly forty-eight hours, and he would have to stop. It seemed that his first priority should be to return the horse and tilbury to Master Scaufflaire. He drove on for few more minutes until he reached the little deserted street that took him directly to the Flemish man's place. Along the street he passed the rectory of the little parish he attended. Two days ago he had found himself compelled to knock on that very door and seek the council of the curé who lived there, a kind and worthy man whom he trusted. He had hesitated then; now he did not even slow his pace. He found he wanted to avoid the place entirely.

He arrived at Scaufflaire's, returned the horse and carriage, paid a generous bonus to compensate for the damages, and made his way back to the street. It was fortunate that his residence was not far, since by now he was nearly fainting from exhaustion. He was no longer capable of thinking clearly, which had the benefit that he was no longer tormented by his thoughts. It was a sensation somewhat like drunkenness. He had a headache. He felt like he was forgetting something. In this state, the mayor conducted himself down the street towards his home.

***

Javert had followed the mayor down the little street, stopping before he reached Scaufflaire's. He scrutinized M. Madeleine like a tiger evaluating its prey, as it looks for signs of weakness. He noted the strange manner of the man's movements. Madeleine, while given to absentmindedness, always walked with purpose; now his stride was hesitant. Moreover, he normally looked composed and well-groomed; today, the man looked half-crazed and completely disheveled. He was not wearing a hat; his cravat was half-untied; the knees of his trousers and edges of his frock-coat looked muddy as if he'd been kneeling on the ground. From the glimpse he had caught of Madeleine's face, he appeared tense and distracted, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. This disturbed Javert. The mayor had the air of a man who is both lost and pursued.

As Madeleine reappeared from the building, he turned for a moment in Javert's direction, as if looking for something. Javert paused uneasily, suddenly irritated with himself for so easily reverting to that insolent habit of observing the mayor. However, Madeleine did not seem to notice him there, and brusquely turned to resume his walk. Javert checked himself then and resolved to leave the man alone, despite whatever curiousity he might have about the mayor's strange behavior. God knows his curiosity had caused enough misery already. Why should he, against all reason and proof, still feel such distrust towards the mayor? He was about to turn back when he saw the other man appear to stop abruptly, then stumble. Javert stopped for a moment, watching out of concern or fascination, and then he saw the man fall. His long strides took him quickly over to the mayor, who appeared to have fainted. As Javert approached, the sight made him shudder. The man on the ground, motionless, livid as a corpse, was no longer breathing.

***

"M. Madeleine! Where are you? I can't see you."

The light was very soft when Fantine woke up. It was either dawn or evening. Her own cry had woken her, and she sat up and looked wildly around. "M. Madeleine? Are you there? " She was sure she'd heard his voice. The room was empty. Then she laughed. How silly she was! She had forgotten that M. Madeleine had gone to Montfermeil to bring back her Cosette. He might return with her at any moment. She was suddenly concerned about the time, and looked around for a clock, which she did not find. She had to make herself look presentable. She combed her shorn locks with her fingers, straightened her little lace cap, and fixed her gown. There was no mirror for her to check her work. What a sight she must be! She hoped that she would not frighten the child. To imagine that she, wretched as she was, could have such an angel for a daughter! She could still picture little Cosette, so rosy and fresh, with her round cheeks and big blue eyes.

Fantine was wide awake now, humming with excitement over the prospect of seeing Cosette, and so she occupied herself by making plans. She would teach Cosette everything she herself did well; to knit, to sew, to embroider. But the girl must have a proper education too, she must learn to read and write and do figures. Her daughter would have everything that she herself had not. Yes, M. Madeleine had promised her. Cosette would be a proper little lady. She must have grown a great deal; she would surely need new clothes. What a delight to think of taking her daughter to the shops, buying her pretty little dresses and bonnets!

Fantine's cheerful train of thought was suddenly cut short as a tall figure strode rapidly past the open door to her room. It could have been anyone; but in the dark, in her delirious state, the figure had seemed more like a phantom from one of her nightmares. She brushed it off, telling herself she was safe now, that M. Madeleine would always protect her. Still she could not suppress an ominous feeling, and she shivered.


	3. L'espoir ne dessine pas l'avenir

**AmZ – oh yes, weirdness shall abound for these two in the future. Speaking of which, have you ever read the extended unpublished version of the scene "How Jean May Become Champ" – talk about an awkward conversation! The boys really need to work on their communication skills.**

**L'Ael-Inire – so glad you liked my Fantine characterization. Yes, she is always the idealist, even in the worst times of her life, and that's what I love about her. Plus I think she is probably assuming that M. Madeleine is going to foot the bill from now on ;).**

**Thank you to my two lovely reviewers for staying with the story. Please keep it up! To anyone who has read but not reviewed, let me know what you think!  
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It seemed that someone had asked him a question. He tried to answer, but could not seem to form the words.

He felt disoriented; he could not remember where he was, and he could not see anything. He thought he recognized the voice of the doctor who attended Fantine. Fantine! Recollection flooded back, and his mind latched onto the familiar subject. He had not paid his usual visit to her bedside, and she surely would have missed him. He hoped his absence had not caused her to worry. Was she here then? Strange thought. He tried to ask the doctor, yet again, the words seemed stuck in his throat. He opened his eyes a little. The doctor was looking down, writing something on a little sheet of paper.

His vision was hazy, but he after a moment he recognized his surroundings. He was in the infirmary. He could not recall how he had come to be there. It did not seem important.

Someone was speaking again, but not to him. He could hear fragments of a conversation, voices speaking in low tones, hard to make out, perhaps just outside the door.

"M. le maire is still recovering. I'm afraid he can't see you now. I will pass on your respects."

"What does the doctor say?"

"Probably an attack of apoplexy. It is a miracle he is still with us. Thank the Lord..."

A few more words here that he could not make out. Then,

"Don't mention that I was here."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't tell him I came by; it's not important."

"As you say. Good evening, monsieur."

The door opened and closed, and the owner of the first voice entered. He recognized the coarse patois of Sister Perpétue. "Has there been any change?"

"No." The doctor replied.

Madeleine tried to speak again, but it seemed to require too much effort. It was very strange. He felt well enough, if perhaps a little faint, but otherwise quite normal. He tried to sit up, and could not. Was he awake? He could not say. It was dark again.

***

Upon leaving the house of M. Madeleine, Javert had kept himself very busy and did not give much thought to the strange events of that afternoon. He had continued to carry out the tasks the mayor had assigned to him well into the early evening hours. Now he sat at his desk and wrote his reports.

One of these reports was on his involvement in the emergency hospitalization of the mayor. It was an obligatory and purely administrative act which he completed with perfect detachment. Javert was nothing if not efficient and methodical in his duty. He glanced at the clock; it was past eight thirty. His reports completed, stamped, and filed, he collected his things and left to go home.

As soon as he went out, his mind immediately began to drift back to the scene of that afternoon. It irritated him that the mayor should continue to preoccupy his thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to rid himself from that man, to never think of or speak to him again, and yet Madeleine always had a way of drawing attention to himself. He was, for all his apparent humanity and intellect, a man of disorder. What disturbed Javert was that such a man should be in so great a position of power. It was dangerous to society, and to himself, Javert. The inspector had not once faltered in his duty, never erred or doubted, he had been irreproachable; that is to say, until he encountered Madeleine. It was as if the very presence of that man corrupted him. There had been a moment, when he had first rushed to his aid, when he observed him perfectly still, corpse-like; he had inwardly rejoiced, thinking him dead. It was a very depraved emotion, he knew, but it was true. While he did not consider himself a man prone to great sentiment of any kind, he could not deny that he deeply hated M. Madeleine.

Yet he had helped this man; in truth, it had never crossed his mind to do anything else. If Madeleine had died, to Javert, negligence on his part would have been equivalent to murder. He was an agent, not a judge, and would have no part in dealing death to anyone. However, knowing that he was thus absolved of any blame, nothing would have pleased Javert more than if the mayor should have died in his sleep that night.

***

Fantine awoke early that morning and found Sister Simplice by her side. She smiled brightly, and expressed a world of hope in this simple question:

"M. Madeleine?"

The sister ignored the question, in her manner of gentle abruptness, and felt her forehead. "The fever is lessening. I do believe you look healthier today. How do you feel?"

"Oh! I feel marvelous! I am going to see my daughter today, you know. Isn't he back with her yet, M. Madeleine? He should be back by now. Oh tell me, sister, where is he?"

"Be calm. How excited you get! You'll tire yourself out."

"But you see, I'm all better now! And still you haven't answered my question; please, sister, don't be cross with me, you understand, I just want to see her so much. Where is she, my Cosette? And M. Madeleine?"

Sister Simplice looked at the poor woman. She had never seen her so full of life. This woman who, days ago, had seemed ready to depart from the world. How to tell the truth of what had happened without killing the hope that revived her?

She merely said, "M. Madeleine has returned from his journey."

At this, Fantine sat up energetically. "Returned! He's here then, you say! But sister, why hasn't he brought me my child? Where is Cosette?" She had grasped the nun's hand with all her strength and was looking at her with anticipation. The deceit had gone on too long for Sister Simplice. She drew a breath, and began:

"Fantine, I will tell you, but you must be calm. The truth is, M. Madeleine – "

A knock.

Simplice hesitated. "You may enter."

It was Sister Perpétue. She paid no attention to Fantine as she hurried over to the other nun and murmured something in her ear. Sister Simplice said a silent prayer of thanks and crossed herself as she heard the news. M. Madeleine had awakened. Yet it was still unknown how much damage was done. The nun had seen cases of victims of such attacks who never fully recovered. Some remained blind, speechless, or immobile forever. Others were physically intact but disturbed emotionally, the personality was changed, often prone to dark thoughts. Nonetheless, there was hope now. After a moment, she decided it was best to delay giving the news to Fantine until she herself knew the extent of the situation.

"I must attend to another patient immediately. I shall tell you everything a little later." She gave Fantine her most reassuring smile as she gently extricated her hand from the woman's grasp. But Fantine did not return the look. She had become pale and serious. Now she turned to Sister Perpétue:

"Good sister," she cried, "Won't you tell me where my child is? Hasn't M. Madeleine brought her?"

"Oh," the nun said softly, caught off guard. She looked at Simplice, who had her eyes down. "I…I think M. Madeleine should like to tell you himself." She said awkwardly, and left the room quickly with Sister Simplice.

Fantine was left alone with her thoughts.

***

At that moment, in a little village outside of Paris, a man was hastily writing a letter. Given his violent movements on the paper and periodic cursing, it could be guessed that the man was very angry.

Suddenly, he called out harshly, "The devil! the rascal wants to bargain. He sends me a few crumbs. Well! I'm not satisfied. Two letters, no answer. Does he think to scare me? The fool!"

He finished his writing, grinned widely, displaying an incomplete set of teeth, and laughed. "Now then! this'll make him answer." He read his letter over quickly, found something in it that seemed to amuse him, and laughed again.


	4. Un jour trop tard

THANK YOU to **L'Ael-Inire**, **AmZ**, and **Marionette Javert Edwards** for reviewing!

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It was three days before M. Madeleine fully regained his senses and another three before he could remember anything that had occurred around the time of the accident. Even then, certain events were unclear; he remembered leaving for Arras, but not much of what had happened after. He was frequently tired, and those around him noticed that he had become increasingly silent and withdrawn. He had difficulty walking, which seemed to disturb him most of all, as he was accustomed to taking long walks to clear his mind. He refused to use a cane, afraid it would become a permanent necessity. He gradually began to return to his duties as mayor. He did not see many visitors and no longer offered private consultations with his citizens. He had his mail processed by his clerk, who addressed all incoming letters in the priority he thought best. All mail that appeared to be of a personal nature was set aside.

Thus it happened that the letters from Cosette's keepers went unnoticed for some time. One afternoon, the mayor, feeling a bit more energetic than usual, told his clerk to bring his personal mail. He immediately noticed several letters of similar appearance with the same style of flowery, yet crude handwriting. He opened these letters at once. As he read each one, his horror increased, until he threw them all aside and called for his clerk.

He had him start a letter. "Write this: M. Thénardier – I advise you not to pursue this course of action which constitutes kidnapping and extortion. If you follow through on your threats, rest assured I will see charges pressed against you. Attached you will find records of all payments that have been delivered to you –"

He stopped. "No." he said quietly. "There isn't time for letters. I need to go get that child."

The clerk, who thought the mayor was speaking to him, added: "But M. le maire is in no condition for a journey!"

"That's true."

Madeleine thought for a moment. "I have let this go on for too long. Fantine is just holding on to see her child. If she had the girl with her, she might still recover. Anyway, Cosette must be brought quickly."

"Perhaps M. le maire could send a servant with the letter signed by Fantine."

He thought for a moment. "No. These are treacherous people. They are as likely to rob the servant as to hand over the child. I would have to send someone with authority, someone accustomed to dealing with such rogues. A man who is intimidating but trustworthy." He hesitated for a moment, deliberating.

At last, he sighed wearily, as if he disliked what he was about to say. "You will go at once to the police station and call on Inspector Javert. Tell him the story, and see to it that he leaves as soon as possible. "

"As you say." The clerk sounded almost reluctant.

"And tell him.. I must speak with him before he leaves."

***

Madeleine spent the next hour in deep thought. He reread the letters, which seemed to disturb him greatly. Later, he went to visit Fantine. He had only seen her once since he had left for Arras. While his presence used to delight her, now the sight of him only reminded her of the promise he had left unfulfilled. Since the accident, Madeleine had seemed unaware of the urgency of the situation. His memory told him only that he had paid the Thénardiers and instructed them to bring Cosette. So he had assured Fantine that her child was on the way. This is what he had told her three days ago.

She was awake when he entered the room. She was very pale, yet her eyes were strangely bright. She did not smile at him when he approached. She only said, "Cosette?"

"Soon." He answered.

Then he took her hand, kneeled, and began to pray. She watched him attentively. When he raised his head finally, she saw that there were tears in his eyes. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"I'm very sorry, Fantine."

He looked at her for a moment, then raised his eyes to the crucifix above her bed. He gazed at it for a long time.

Just then, heavy footsteps were heard approaching, followed by a sharp knock at the door.

"Enter."

The door opened, someone entered and stood patiently in the doorway. It took Madeleine a moment to awaken from his reverie. Finally, he stood up with some effort and turned to the visitor. It was his clerk.

"I must beg M. le maire's pardon."

"Yes?"

"There was some difficulty…with the assignment." The man hesitated as he glanced at Fantine.

Madeleine understood; he gestured for them to exit the room while excusing himself to Fantine.

"What is this about? Did he refuse then? I know it is a strange request, certainly not within his duty as a police officer; indeed, at this point it is really no more than a civil dispute. But besides myself, I can't think of anyone else who could handle the situation. And he is an honorable man, if a little odd. He would be able to ensure the girl's safety. So, what did he say?"

"Of course, M. le maire is right, but that is not what I meant."

"What is the problem then?"

"I went to the police station as instructed. But I did not find him there. It seems Monsieur Javert turned in his resignation yesterday. He has left the police."


	5. La négociation

**AmZ**,** L'Ael-Inire**, **Marionette Javert Edwards**,** Bramblefox**: thank you all for reviewing!

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"Resigned?"

"Yes, M. le maire, so I was told."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid I don't know."

"Well – I don't understand! Why wasn't I notified?"

Madeleine found himself strangely offended by the news. He knew, rationally, that he should be relieved. After all, this was a man whose constant scrutiny and suspicion he had been forced to endure since the Fauchelevant affair. A man who, unknowingly, had nearly compelled him to return to prison.

And yet, a strange part of him felt betrayed. He said to himself, who does this man think he is, to leave his post for no reason, without notice? But he also thought, absurdly –without my permission?

Madeleine, momentarily lost in his thoughts, had forgotten the man standing in front of him, awaiting his word. "Well, go on then!" He barked, his manner uncharacteristically harsh. "Find him and tell him to come immediately to my office." It did not occur to Madeleine that he could no longer give orders to Javert.

***

The winter is always colder in Montfermeil than in Paris. It is a strange phenomenon of cities; they seem to generate warmth through sheer numbers. This effect, while suffocating in the summer, in the winter is often the difference between life and death for those who live on the streets. This is part of the reason why small towns like Montfermeil have a very small homeless population. The few that exist either move on quickly or perish.

On a cold February day, this population increased by one. The unlucky soul was a young child who had just been driven from the miserable place she called home. The girl, hated by the woman of the house and no longer profitable to the man, was turned out to the mercy of the streets, with nothing but the rags she wore.

***

Javert had been in the middle of packing his things when he was interrupted. Fortunately, a man with his habits did not have a large amount of belongings to preoccupy him. He intended to leave Montreuil-sur-mer without delay and head to the southern part of the country to look for work.

He was irritated, but not at all surprised when the mayor's clerk appeared at his door. He was, however, inwardly displeased that the mayor had not seen fit to call on him personally. After all, this whole business was because of him. He had not wanted to resign, yet the mayor had given him no choice. Further proof that the man had no concept of justice. If he had been just, if he had really respected Javert, as he claimed, he would not have hesitated to dismiss him. Javert had intended to make his request again, but since Madeleine's illness, he somehow could not bring himself to face the man.

Now he listened while the clerk stammered his message, relaying that M. le maire kindly requested M. Javert's presence right away. No doubt he wanted to try to persuade Javert to keep his position. A pointless exercise for both men.

Nonetheless, Javert agreed to see the mayor, if only out of curiousity about what he might have to say.

***

An hour later, M. Madeleine was in his office, distractedly going over some town business, when he was informed that M. Javert had arrived.

"Have him enter." He said, without stopping his work.

Javert entered and gave a curt bow, which most more reflexive than deliberate. His eyes were no longer downcast, his face no longer displayed the resigned humility it had at their last meeting. Today, it was a proud and stern air.

"Have a seat, inspector."

Javert remained standing. "Monsieur." He corrected.

"Yes, I see. My clerk tells me you have resigned your post. May I ask why? Has the position become unsatisfactory to you?"

"No, M. le maire, I have become unsatisfactory to my post." There was an edge of irritation in his voice.

"I do not understand, Javert."

Javert sighed, and spoke with forced patience. "It's perfectly simple: I informed M. le maire nine days ago of my impending departure. I understand your recent illness may have disturbed your ability to remember. Very well, I shall refresh your memory. I, as an agent of authority, abused my position and acted on unjust suspicions, –"

Madeline raised his hand, cutting him off. "Enough, Javert, I remember. But what is this nonsense about resigning? As I recall, you requested your dismissal, which I did not grant."

"Indeed, that is why I have resigned."

M. Madeleine placed the fingers of his right hand against his temple as if all this was giving him a headache. "Javert, you make too much of this. Here is the case: you denounced me, you confessed, you admitted your error. I forgave you."

"You do not have the right to forgive me."

These words, spoken with such conviction and simplicity, were very strange to the ears of M. Madeleine. He looked at Javert, trying to find in his face an understanding he could not in his words. Javert returned his gaze, his expression impassive.

"What then? Don't you wish to redeem yourself?"

"I cannot. A man does not erase an error by countering it with a good deed."

"Is that what you believe?"

"Yes."

"So you are unwilling to make restitution for the wrong you have done to me?"

Now it was Javert who hesitated. His voice became edged with suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"If I asked you to do something for me, you would refuse?"

"I will not remain on the police force."

"That's not what I meant. Something else."

Javert's expression clearly showed what was in his mind at the moment. He regarded Madeleine icily. "What?" he asked harshly.

Madeleine had been distractedly shuffling some papers on his desk as they spoke, as if to purposefully avert his eyes. "I want you to go on an errand for me."

He paused, then:

"I want you to go to Montfermeil and bring back Fantine's child."

Javert looked like he was about to go mad.

"No." A world of opposition was contained in that syllable.

"I know that we have exchanged words over the subject of Fantine, but I ask you, Javert, do not let that prejudice you against her. She is innocent in this."

"Innocent! The wretch should be in prison as we speak."

"Indeed, you may as well say she should be dead! Really, Javert, are you without any compassion? The woman is very ill. I know! And her child, you cannot deny, is blameless." He had stood up, his fists resting on the desk as he leaned over it; he was now facing the other man almost eye to eye, without even noticing the aggressive position he had taken. Javert did not flinch.

"Send someone else. I am not your servant. Besides, I am leaving the city."

"Ah! so now that it suits you, you forget your injustice against me. You do not wish to make amends."

And he added spitefully, "I thought you were a man of integrity, Javert."

Madeleine was aware that he was taking this too far. For one thing, he knew very well that Javert had never been wrong in his accusation. And he could surely find someone else for this task. Javert had answered him: no. But it was beyond the issue of Cosette now. If he could have objectively witnessed his own thoughts, he would have seen that, like the scene at the police station, there was an issue of power at hand. Only this time, instead of Fantine, it was Cosette who was caught in the middle. And yet Madeleine was blind to all this, convinced that he had only the interest of the child in mind.

Javert responded in a low voice. "I owe you nothing."

There was a long silence. Javert did not elaborate.

At last, Madeleine grew impatient. "So, will you do this or not? Time is short. The child may be in danger. Will you do nothing?"

A pause. "I will go." Javert said steadily. "But there is something you must do in return."

"What is that?"

Javert fixed him with a look so daunting that Madeleine unconsciously took a step back.

"You will tell me exactly who, and what, you really are."


	6. L’interrogatoire

For several moments neither man spoke. Madeleine, in an effort to conceal his shock, left the desk and occupied himself with stirring the fire. He was deeply absorbed in his thoughts and for a while did not seem conscious of Javert, who stood patient and attentive.

When Madeleine finally answered, his tone was mild, vaguely amused. "You say that as though I am some sort of mystery to you."

"You are. Not what I once guessed, so wrongly –but you are not what they think." These last words were pronounced with a bitterness that left no doubt of his meaning. Javert was one of the few individuals who remained entirely free of the town's almost contagious adoration of the mayor. Despite the discovery of the real Jean Valjean, in Javert's mind, he could not shake his inherent distrust of Madeleine. It seemed to him that a man did not need to be a convict to be a swindler; his veneration of authority did not blind him to the abuse of it. He had seen enough lawful corruption in his time to recognize those, like Madeleine, who fraudulently usurp respect from honest citizens. That, at least, is what he believed.

Madeleine, having assumed a very calm and natural air, turned back to Javert. "Well, go on then." He made a slight motion for Javert to continue as he returned to his desk. "You may ask of me what you want." To demonstrate his lack of interest in the discussion, Madeleine distracted himself with some papers, which he treated with great attention.

This show of indifference might have discouraged a man less sure than Javert, but he knew too well to be fooled. He was smiling then, but it was not the sort of look intended to put one at ease; there was such an appearance of contented cruelty in that expression that it became a snarl.

"Forgive me if I am distrustful; it is the nature of my profession –" he caught himself immediately, " –that is to say, of my former profession, to be hesitant to take a man at his word. Therefore, do not be offended by what I must require of you."

"What is that?" Madeleine was making notes on a sheet of paper and did not look up from his work.

"I know that you are a religious man, M. le maire; and genuinely, I do not doubt it. I have great respect for any man who is truly devout. Such a man would not perjure himself. It is for this fortunate reason that I may have confidence in your answer, if you will give your oath, now, on the Bible."

At this, Madeleine's peaceful exterior began to falter. "Indeed, Javert! That should not offend me – that I, a magistrate, should give sworn testimony to you, an inferior! Would you try me like a culprit, then, with yourself the judge? Why should I submit to your insolent suspicion any longer? I've had quite enough of it already!"

Javert sighed, and answered calmly: "M. le maire, I am no longer your inferior officer; you would do well to remember that. That being so, I am under no obligation to perform favors for you, and certainly I will not as long as I have any doubts about your character. Indeed, an honest man does not shrink from the truth! That is what I know. There, I have given you my terms."

It was impossible to refuse; to do so would only provoke Javert's suspicion further, and then there was the matter of Cosette. Yet Madeleine did not think he could perjure himself. No lie was worth the cost of his soul. The trap was well laid, he thought miserably.

In fact it was convenient for Javert that the mayor was a religious man, as there was no difficulty in obtaining the bible on which he would swear his oath. He resignedly took the well-worn book from its drawer and solemnly gave his oath upon it. Javert had remained standing the entire time; now, feeling more confident with the course of the discussion, he took a seat before the mayor's desk. Madeleine, looking less calm, followed suit, and watched uneasily as Javert produced several sheets of paper which appeared to contain extensive notes. Thus he began his interrogation.

"Where were you born?"

"Faverolles."

"Did you at one time secretly request information on missing families in Faverolles?"

"Yes."

"What was your purpose?"

"To locate certain individuals I knew there."

"Of what relation to you?"

"My sister and her children."

"Did you find them?"

The mayor's voice expressed no emotion. "I did not."

"What was your profession before you came to Montreuil-sur-mer?"

A pause. "I was a tree pruner."

"Why did you come to this town?"

"I had not intended to remain here at first. I was passing through."

"Montreuil-sur-mer was not your original destination?"

"No."

"What was your destination?"

"Pontarlier."

"Yet you left from Faverolles?" There was a trace of either doubt or confusion in the question.

"No."

"Then, where?"

Another, longer pause."In fact, it was Toulon."

This time Javert hesitated. "I see."

Then, quietly, as if to himself: "Yet we are some four hundred miles north of Pontarlier, at least." He continued, addressing Madeleine: "You say you left Toulon, with Pontarlier as your destination, yet you found yourself 'passing though' Montreuil-sur-mer, which happens to be on the wrong side of the country?"

Madeleine was increasingly losing his semblance of tranquility. "I think – as it was so long ago, you see – it is possible I have misremembered some of the facts."

"Bear in mind you are under oath, and do well not to 'misremember' any more of your answers." Madeleine felt his face flush at the condescending words. To be spoken to this way by a previous subordinate was a hard blow to his pride. Javert, he mused, would have made a terribly effective prosecuting attorney.

"Some time ago, you wore a mourning crêpe in your hat; some people said it was in connection with the late bishop of Digne. Is that true?"

"It is."

"What was your relation to Monseigneur the bishop?"

"I had met him once when I was traveling. He offered me lodging and hospitality."

"Then you were not employed to his family as a servant, in your youth, as you had first said?"

Madeleine was taken aback. How could Javert know everything?

"No, I was not." He answered softly, incredulous.

"You met him on the road from Toulon?"

"Yes."

"And what was your business in Toulon?"

Madeleine studied Javert carefully, trying to see if there was not some suspicion behind the serious and honest face. He got nothing for his efforts.

"I was a laborer." He answered guardedly.

Still Javert's face showed no sign of either suspicion or astonishment. Several moments passed while he seemed to collect his thoughts. Then,

"Is Madeleine your true name?"

"No."

He again met Javert's gaze, and this time what he saw there made him shudder. For a moment there appeared to be a flicker of dreadful realization in his eyes, which almost immediately vanished. Javert's face was again that of an impassive judge.

The obvious question hung in the air, unspoken. It was as though Javert avoided it purposely. If Madeleine understood this, he could not have explained it, and did not care to; he only prayed that he would never hear that question pronounced, knowing that he could do nothing but answer it truthfully. Still the silence was agony for him.

"Is that all, Javert?"

He did not answer.

"Is there something else you wish to ask me?"

Javert regarded him darkly, a look that was a warning, and still he did not answer.

A sudden loud knock at the door made both of them jump. "What is it?" Madeleine asked anxiously.

"M. le maire," it was the voice of one of the servants. "Forgive me, but there is a matter that requires your immediate attention."

"Enter, then."

The door opened, the flushed face of a young woman appeared. "Pardon, monsieur," she said hastily, glancing at Javert, and her flush deepened.

"What is the matter?"

"It's Mlle. Fantine. She is asking for you."

"I'll visit her soon. First I have to prepare some instructions for M. Javert."

"But, monsieur! I don't think it can wait. Won't you go to her right away?"

Understanding hit him like a blow. He put aside his own selfish fear, forgetting Javert in front of him, forgetting what had just happened. He left without a word.

Javert remained alone in the office, very preoccupied with his thoughts. After a few minutes he quietly left.


	7. L’aubergiste et sa fille

To the Attention of M. Chabouillet, Secretary of M. le Prefect:

I must again humbly beg your attention to the matter of the Jean Valjean case.  
I know that to all appearances, the case has been resolved; Jean Valjean has  
been found, identified, convicted, etc. You will recall that I was a witness at  
the trial, and I personally identified the one who called himself Champmathieu  
as the former convict Jean Valjean. It is my greatest sadness to inform you  
that I now have reason to believe the convicted is in fact not Jean Valjean.

Certain particularities that have just been revealed to me indicate that my  
first instinct was correct: that the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer, who calls  
himself M. Madeleine, is Jean Valjean. I beg M. le secrétaire to recognize  
that I do not take this accusation lightly; indeed, it is greatly distressing to  
acknowledge that I have erred in my testimony, and I do so only out of my  
deep obligation to justice. I believe that my testimony against Champmathieu  
was a deciding element in his conviction, which I now see was wrongful.

I beg M. le secrétaire to forgive my indecisiveness on the case, but to be  
assured that I am of clear and certain mind at this time. I request a warrant  
for the arrest of the one known as M. Madeleine, mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer.  
At the time you read this letter, I will have left town, and cannot be reached.  
Kindly do not wait for my return to apprehend the suspect. I have reason to  
believe he is aware of my suspicions and may attempt to flee.

Please find enclosed several sheets which are copies of my recent interview  
with the suspect.

Respectfully,

Javert, former inspector of police at Montreuil-sur-mer

M. Chabouillet sighed deeply as he scanned the letter. He held Javert in great esteem, but the poor man was obviously losing his mind. First, to denounce his superior, the admirable M. Madeleine; then to deny those charges, and testify against another man he believed to be the convict Jean Valjean; soon after this, the prefecture was informed of Javert's sudden resignation from his post. Now, here was a letter denouncing the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer, yet again! M. Chabouillet shook his head sadly. It was a great shame to lose a man as talented and clever as Javert, but it was plain that the position had become too much for him. He threw aside the letter and accompanying documents without reading any further, and began to contemplate the matter of Javert's replacement.

***

M. Madeleine held the cold hand of Fantine and gazed at her still, radiant face as he prayed. His look held a sort of inexpressible pity that was at the same time full of awe. He remained like this for a long time, as he contemplated the sad life of the young woman who now, for the first time in many years, lay peaceful and untroubled. He deeply regretted that he had not been with her in her last moments. Even worse, the poor woman had not seen her child. He could see only one person responsible for that great injustice: it was himself.

The nuns were praying as well, and it was very quiet in the room. Thus Madeleine was able to discern the sound of light footsteps as they approached. He turned towards the door.

It was Javert. He took in the scene, the still figure on the bed, the sisters in prayer, and understood immediately. He removed his hat and lowered his eyes respectfully.

Madeleine, seeing him, addressed him in an soft voice and instructed him to wait a moment. Javert bowed slightly and stepped outside.

Madeleine, still holding the hand of Fantine, kissed it; bending close to her ear, he asked her forgiveness, and gave his promise that her child would cared for. With that, he let a tear fall from his eye, and he left her side for the last time.

As he stepped outside, he saw Javert standing just next to the door. He looked somber and strangely moved. Perhaps the death of the girl had finally evoked some pity in him.

Madeleine leaned over to him. "What now, Javert?" He was still speaking softly, so as not to disturb those in the room. "Will you not go for the child of the poor woman?"

Javert seemed to take offense at Madeleine's question. "I gave my word, did I not? Of course I will go." Then, his look becoming a little harder, he said, "You will still be here when I return with the child, yes?"

There was a certain implication in these words, which Madeleine understood. He answered in the affirmative.

"That is fortunate." Javert smiled, again that strange smile, but Madeleine took it well, and seemed relieved.

"Come," said he, placing his hand amiably on Javert's shoulder, as they walked, "Let us make the necessary arrangements."

***

Éponine tossed down the bucket and rag with a thud as she glared at the patrons in the inn, all talking and laughing loudly, some spilling wine and food over the tables and chairs. Tables and chairs she had just scrubbed by hand. She looked around for her mother to voice her complaint, but she only saw her father. She didn't dare say a word to him. He'd only strike her and tell her to stop being such a lazy little bitch. Her mother was usually sympathetic, though she had become markedly less so since they'd disposed of the little lark-girl. She used to do all the chores that Éponine and Azelma were now burdened with. It wasn't fair, thought Éponine bitterly; she had done nothing wrong. She didn't like the girl, who was always very sullen and dirty, but at least she had brought the water and cleaned the floors. Éponine thought it was foolish of her parents to have sent her away. Mme. Thénardier had always hated the girl, but her father didn't used to care one way or the other. Then one day he'd been very angry with the girl; Éponine understood it was because her mother wasn't paying them anymore. That same day the girl had done something really foolish, she had spilled a whole jug of expensive wine all over the floor of the inn. M. Thénardier had been so angry he'd struck the girl very hard, which made her cry loudly. That was when he had thrown her out the door, and told her to go away.

Éponine didn't like cleaning or fetching water, but she was glad that she didn't have to live out in the cold like the lark-girl.

She spotted Azelma playing in a corner by the fire, marched over, seized the girl by her sleeve and dragged her over to the bucket. "Clean!" She demanded, pointing at the soiled tables and chairs. The younger girl resentfully obeyed. Since the lark-girl had gone away, Mme. Thénardier was harsher to Éponine; she found it made her feel a little better to be harsh with her sister.

Watching the smaller girl with satisfaction, she was thinking about stealing away to go play when, suddenly, the door swung open, letting in a cold gust of air, and a tall man wearing a big iron-gray coat entered. Éponine was immediately annoyed. They'd had only a few customers so far, all of them regulars, so she'd been having an easy night. This newcomer meant work for her, especially with her mother out and her father preoccupied. Éponine scrutinized the suspicious-looking man for a moment before greeting him. "Good evening!" She called. "What will monsieur have?"

The man looked around for a moment, surveying the place, before he answered her. When he did, he looked at her very strangely, as though he recognized her. He said, in a low voice, "Mademoiselle, tell me where I will I find M. Thénardier."

"He is busy." She informed him curtly. Her father had told her never to bother him during his business meetings; these usually involved his quarreling with several very drunk men, and indeed her father seemed to be holding such a meeting at the moment. "What can I get for monsieur?" She asked again.

He knelt down suddenly, and examined her. "Child, is your name Cosette?"

"No, monsieur." She looked at him curiously.

"You are not the daughter of Fantine?"

"No, monsieur." She repeated. Then added, "I do not know who that is."

"How old are you?"

"I am eight, monsieur."

"Where is your mother, then?"

"I don't know, monsieur."

The strange man nodded slowly as though he understood.

"What do they call you?"

"Éponine."

He looked at her hands, pitifully red from the recent scrubbing she had done.

"They make you work very hard?"

Éponine sighed dramatically. "Yes, monsieur! I am so tired. I have to do everything now!" She said it quietly so her father wouldn't overhear.

She smiled at the man. He didn't look very charming at first, but she now thought him kind. Most customers just wanted her to bring them their wine and leave them be.

The customer glanced at the table with the drunk men and her father, who was talking loudly. Being the only sober man at the table, he was winning the argument, as usual. The stranger, watching them, asked, "Is that M. Thénardier?"

She nodded. "You know him, monsieur?"

"I know enough." He said, standing up.

"You want to talk to him?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell him when –"

Éponine's voice trailed off as she watched the man march straight towards her father. She almost grabbed his coat and warned him that he'd better not, that her father would get mad for being interrupted during a business meeting; but after a thought she decided the man, who was taller and certainly much stronger than Thénardier, could fend for himself. She watched the exchange with interest.

As she had anticipated, her father was not at all happy to be greeted by the man in the midst of his meeting. Especially because the manner of greeting involved seizing him by his collar and hauling him to his feet, while Thénardier could only struggle uselessly. The drunks her father had been conversing with made a weak protest, then looked at the tall, broad-shouldered man, and decided it best to leave Thénardier to his own affairs.

"What is the meaning of this?" The innkeeper hissed, as he tried in vain to pry the man's vice-like hands off his collar.

"Outside." The man's voice was as frightening as his appearance. Éponine watched with mixed horror and curiousity as the man dragged her father outside. It wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened. Once three or four men had come to the house and pounded on the door in the middle of the night. Thénardier had nursed a broken arm and several bad bruises after that meeting. When she asked him about it later, he told her they had come to "rob" him. So, she figured, that was likely what this man was going to do.

Éponine watched through the window, just able to make out the two figures in the dark. The tall man had released her father but looked no less threatening as he questioned him. Thénardier was holding up his hands defensively and she could hear him pleading with the stranger. As she watched the scene with fascination, Éponine saw her mother returning. Mme. Thénardier halted when she saw the two men outside and went over to them. Her husband spoke a few words to her, and she came inside immediately.

As she entered, Éponine heard her muttering and cursing, half-crazed, "Oh Lord! what shall we do? The stupid little wretch!" She sat down by the fire and continued her ranting. "That awful slut! If she hadn't made us drive her away, oh! What trouble she had caused for us. We're all going to be put in prison!" She began to sob. She carried on like this for the next few minutes, until at last Thénardier entered. The tall man did not follow him in. He approached his hysterical wife, laid a hand on her shoulder, and hissed in a low, ragged voice. "Shut up! Foolish woman. You'll ruin everything."

"'Ruin everything'? Ruin what? Good lord, what are you going to do? The girl is gone; dead, frozen, stolen, who knows? Gone!"

"I tell you, woman, be quiet! Yes, yes; I have it all worked out."

"What?" She asked stupidly, blinking at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well," the innkeeper was now grinning savagely, "it seems we need to find ourselves another little Cosette, and quick."


End file.
